Free Nazi Sharks! by Jared Roberts Page B

was one thing, but in shark-infested waters with a serial
killer on the loose—those are no conditions for a pirouette.
    “They’ll show,” Edwina
affirmed.
    Was it just over a Spic calling
himself Burt Reynolds, she wondered contemptuously, or—no, this was
a point of honor. We cannot let our men by stolen willy-nilly, even
creepy Hispanic men with no visible means of income. Really, her
resentment went deeper, to Edwina’s ongoing talent for dragging the
girl-gang from one fad to another. If it wasn’t 1950s synchronized
swimming, it was a 1970s delinquent gang, a 1990s goth troupe, or
that weird bee costume fad—what was that about, anyway? Ultimately,
she thought, Edwina just watched too many movies and was way too
impressionable. Nikki knew this, but how did she end up in the bee
costume? And would she end up in a shark? These questions remained
relevant to her.
    Andrea kicked a little dune
that had once been a proud sand castle, in which a noble sand king
once reigned.
    “That was such an AIDS-ridden,
douche-washy thing to do!” she spat.
    “No kidding,” Mila agreed,
casting her glances over the beach, shielding her eyes. There was
no sign of the Cherry Bombs. It was just like them to be late.
Skank Standard Time is always an hour behind.
    “Thanks, guys!” Edwina said. “I
know it’s risky with that shark around and I just want you to know
how much this means to me.”
    Nikka felt her resistance
crumble. She knew Edwina felt every word of that sentence—not just
in her throat, but in her heart. She cast her arms around her
troublesome friend and held her tight.
    “Hey, death by shark-devouring
before dishonor by slut,” Steph proclaimed, joining in on the
increasingly sexy hug. “It’s too convoluted to be our motto, but
it’s how I feel.”
    Mila and Andrea joined in,
making the group hug complete and impressively arousing. Kevin
Costner trained his binoculars on the delectable sight of
compressed girl-flesh and mentally filed it away for later, just
behind the mental bestiality folder.
    “What would I do without you
guys?” Edwina gushed.
    “You dykes already at it?”
Sherry asked. Where the hell had she come from?
    The Cherry Bombs were standing
right behind the sexy group hug, hands on their hips. With their
black-and-red two-piece bikinis and fin-shaped mohawks, they were
ready for action.
    “Here’s an idea,” Edwina
answered. “You can suck the turds out of a squirrel’s asshole—or
you can shut our mouth and start swimming.”
    Sherry snorted with derision.
She’d been told worse things by better people. Why’d she keep
emailing the cardinal anyway?
    “So who’s the judge?” Sherry
asked.
    “I am!” Costner answered, from
directly behind her, the sunscreen on his nose only enhancing his
pervert’s smile.
    “Where’d you come from?”
    “Nevermind that,” he answered.
“Same rules as the main competition. I do not judge you based on
your tits or your asses—not professionally, anyway. I judge based
upon grace of execution, harmony of the team, and innovation of the
moves. Not, I repeat, tits and ass.”
    Sherry and Edwina exchanged
skeptical glances, the first and last time they’d ever be on the
same wavelength. All the girls crossed their arms and Costner
imagined what it must feel like to be those forearms.
    “Uh-huh,” Edwina answered.
    “Both teams swim at once,”
Costner stated. “Everyone ready?”
    “We’re readier than your wife’s
greasy tortilla-hole on fiesta night,” Sherry snapped and drew her
team to the water’s edge.
    “We’re ready,” Edwina
agreed.
    “Go!” Costner shouted.
    Edwina led her Queens into the
water for the dramatic showdown. Yet, her mind was preoccupied.
What were the twenty-eight flavors of Dr. Pepper? And she wondered
if Reynolds would show up. Had he stayed up all night filling
Sherry with his slimy queso? “That could’ve been me!” Edwina did
not think. She felt it, but really she was angry. And